


where your treasure is, there will your heart be also

by deerie



Series: where the heart is [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Footnotes, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerie/pseuds/deerie
Summary: “I was thinking,” Crowley says, “that London is starting to feel a little cramped.”Aziraphale feels like he has missed a cue; he is the dancer fumbling over a missed step. “Were you?”Crowley’s gaze bores a hole in him. “Would you come with me?”





	where your treasure is, there will your heart be also

_and then the question  
_ _behind every question:  What happens next?_

 

As it turns out, Aziraphale thinks, home isn’t a place. [1] Home isn’t even Heaven. Or at least, it isn’t Heaven anymore. This is a heady thought to have, especially for an angel.

They’ve done the deed: they help a boy avert the apocalypse, they trade faces based on the prophecy of a witch, they bathe in Holy water and burn in hellfire, they live.

A snake tempts a woman with an apple. An angel gives away his flaming sword.

The eyes above and below are both furiously watching them and pretending not to be.

He and Crowley sit at their usual spots in the bookshop, sharing a bottle of 1907 Heidsieck.[2]

“Oh, this is nice,” Aziraphale says, slipping down in his seat just a touch. “I’m getting notes of graham crackers and caramelised bananas. I can taste the ocean.”

Crowley hums under his breath. “Don’t forget the explosion. Explosion’s a good flavor for a Champagne.”

Aziraphale ignores that altogether, but says, “The bubbles are quite nice, too. Just enough to remind you that it’s a still a Champagne.”

Crowley has shed his glasses, artfully lounged back on his chair with the champagne glass held idly in his hand, like at any moment it could fall and the glass would shatter against the ground.

Both are silent for a long moment.[3]

“What comes next, do you suppose?”

Crowley perks up a little at the question. He cocks his head as if he’s thinking intently about how to answer the enormity of a question like that. Finally, he says, “Life, I guess.”

Aziraphale thinks back on the multitude of years he has existed: before the garden, after the garden, the rise and fall of civilizations, the periods of war and the period of peace. Was that not life?[4]

All at once, Aziraphale is lost: unmoored in a vast sea of possibilities. He wonders if humankind feels like this all the time. It must be lonely. However do humans cope?

“I was thinking,” Crowley says, “that London is starting to feel a little cramped.”

Aziraphale feels like he has missed a cue; he is the dancer fumbling over a missed step. “Were you?”

Crowley’s gaze bores a hole in him. “Would you come with me?”

“I hope you’re not still on about Alpha Centauri, dear. I like Earth quite well, thanks.”

“No,” Crowley says, more patient than he has ever been, Aziraphale is sure. “Not Alpha Centauri.”

“Where then?”

Here, the silence stretches on like a precipice -- like a first step toward something new. Aziraphale holds a breath he doesn’t need.

“With me,” Crowley answers, “wherever you want, angel.”

Aziraphale is not sure if he is quite an angel nor Crowley quite a demon anymore. No one has ever done what they have done before.

But God has not come down to reprimand them.[5]

“I hear,” Aziraphale says carefully, “that South Downs is quite nice this time of year.”

He waits for a thunderclap that will not come.

“South Downs,” Crowley tries, rolling the name around in his mouth like the drink they just shared. “Let’s give it a go.”

 

_If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is._

 

The cottage overlooks a bluff.

Crowley likes that part the best.

The grass extends all the way to the edge of the bluff and gives way to the white rock face of the chalk hills. Beyond that extends the English Channel  in every direction.

On their second day of occupying the cottage, they shed their shoes and socks[6] and make for the beach below. The sand is not soft like it would be on the white sand beaches along the Gulf of Mexico not is it as pristine as the sands on the beaches of the Seychelles or Grace Bay, but more akin to chalk dust, rocky bits, and dirt. The water in the channel is not warm by any stretch of the imagination, but Aziraphale still takes the time to wade up to his ankles in it.

Crowley watches him with something akin to fondness in his eyes, though one could never tell with the sunglasses obscuring them.

They return to the cottage when the sun begins to dip.

Nearly every surface is covered with a box. Both are hesitant to miracle their contents to their correct spaces, what with the averted apocalypse having happened so recently and their respective Head Offices so fresh in their minds.

What they do have is a couch, relocated from Crowley’s flat, and the plush armchairs from Aziraphale’s bookshop. Both Aziraphale and Crowley eschew the armchairs in favor of the couch.

“Every moment we’ve spent on Earth,” Aziraphale says, “we’ve swayed the humans for either good or evil. We have always had a purpose, a goal to work toward. What happens if we get bored?”[7]

“I don’t think we will,” Crowley says. His ungainly sprawl leaves them pressed hip to knee. “We can do whatever we want. Neither of our Head Offices are going to be looking at us with any sort of scrutiny, not after the stunt we pulled.”

Aziraphale hums, barely audibly, and knits his hands together in his lap.

Crowley continues, “That thing you said, with the rubber duck? And getting Michael to miracle you a towel?” He presses his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “Truly inspired.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale equivocates, “but that we know each other so well to fool our respective sides is a miracle.”

“Nah,” Crowley drawls, snaking his hand to ring around Aziraphale’s wrist lightly. “There was nothing miraculous about that, angel. How long have we known each other?”

“Ages,” Aziraphale breathes. “Ages and ages.”

Crowley taps his finger against the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist. If Aziraphale were human, his pulse would be jumping all over the place.

“Since the beginning,” Crowley says. “That’s not a miracle. That’s love.”

He states it so plainly, so starkly. There is no room for doubt here.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, smiling slightly, “yes, you’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

  


There’s a sunny patch at the front of the cottage, demarcated by a window seat, in which Crowley likes to lounge. Aziraphale joins him often to read.

Crowley lays with the back of his head pressed to Aziraphale’s thigh. He observes the comings and goings of those who pass the cottage through the window.

There is an angel posted on a bench that was not there the day before, reading a newspaper. He mentions as much to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale pauses his book with a finger to mark his place and looks outside as well. After a moment, he shrugs. “I think you’re right,” he says. “They don’t know what to do with us, so the only thing they can do is watch. Angels are particularly good watchers.”

“Are they, now?” Crowley laughs, thinking of a flaming sword, a garden, and an apple.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale scolds. “You know I never lost anything, truly.”

“You play a good bumbling fool,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale colors around the plump swell of his cheeks. “Yes, well, needs must.”

“S’not a criticism, darling,” Crowley says, rolling his body over so as to get an even distribution of sun. “I like that underneath, you’re shrewd. It makes things exciting.”

Aziraphale thinks of all the questions he’s never given a voice to but that still rattle about in his mind. “It’s not my place to question.”

Crowley grins at that. “Oh, sure. Not the big things anyway. Not the Ineffable Plan. Your wonder, though, I think I like it best.”

Aziraphale pinks up a little more.

Now, that -- Crowley might have lied, just a little bit -- is what he likes best.

Crowley rolls his head back on Aziraphale’s thigh and Aziraphale tangles the fingers of his free hand in his hair. “What do you want to do about the angel outside?”

Aziraphale is very nearly caught back up in his book. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat and then glances quickly outside. “Let’s just leave her there,” he says. “Surely they’ll get bored.”

Crowley shuts his eyes. He waits, as he always does, for Aziraphale to read his favorite parts of his books out loud. He isn’t disappointed.

“ _You were not made to live your lives as brutes, but to be followers of worth and knowledge,_ ”[8] Aziraphale says softly. He lets the words hang in the air between them.

“Hang on, is that Alighieri?” Crowley interrupts, scrunching his nose.

“I,” Aziraphale says, cheekily, “do not know if you have heard his name. ”[9]

“The _Divine Comedy_ is a bit long for an extended metaphor about how Florence is going in the shitter,” Crowley says. “It doesn’t even get the bits about Hell right.”

“Well, no one ever guesses how bureaucratic Heaven and Hell are,” Aziraphale placates.

“It’s a right nightmare, is what it is,” Crowley rants, just a little bit. “Paperwork! Before paper was even invented.”

Aziraphale lets him go on. He returns to his book with the cadence of Crowley’s voice providing a background hum and lets the pages flip one after the other.   
  


 

“A demon has spoiled our milk,” Aziraphale says when he returns with the full bottles, “and I think some of our mail is missing.”

“Now, Aziraphale, you can’t just blame the demons every time the milk’s gone off. That’s what milk does.”

“No,” Aziraphale says firmly. “I saw a demon spoil our milk. He said, ‘I’m spoiling your milk!’ and then disappeared.”

“Oh,” Crowley frowns. “That’s not particularly inspired, is it? Where’s the artistry?”

Aziraphale pours half of the chunky milk down the sink. He wavers for a moment, and then pours the rest down the drain. “I don’t think I can stand to miracle it. I would know that it had been chunky at one point.”

“Suit yourself,” Crowley says, not minding one way or the other. When he opens the fridge, a fresh pint sits inside. He takes a sniff. “Goat?”

“Fresh from a milking herd in Wales,” Aziraphale says, not at all repentant of the fact that he’s miracled the milk here. “Maybe it’s time for a change. I hear it’s easier to digest.”

“You have no problems digesting,” Crowley says, but pulls the milk out all the same. “It could be worse than spoiling the milk and stealing the mail.”

Aziraphale frowns and knocks on the wooden door frame, a habit he’s picked up from the biddies down at the local library. Crowley laughs at him.

“I’m just saying! If the angels want to surveil our house and the demons see fit to ruin the milk, I say we let them. It will keep them busy at the very least.”

“Surely they have more important things to do,” Aziraphale says dubiously.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Crowley agrees

“Well, if it makes them happy, I guess we can’t begrudge them the opportunity,” Aziraphale says.

“You’re too kind,” Crowley says, not unkindly.

“One of us has to be,” Aziraphale says fondly.

 

 

Sleep is one of those things neither Aziraphale or Crowley strictly need to do, but neither can deny the indulgence. They don’t sleep every night and certainly no one is sleeping entire centuries through, but there’s something to be said for waking up next to someone that you love.

Aziraphale rouses slowly to Crowley pressing their fingers against each other in the hazy morning light. He shifts closer and sighs against a bare shoulder and watches carefully as Crowley presses the tips of their pointer fingers together before tangling their hands together.

“ _Soft hour,_ ” Crowley says into his hair, “ _which wakes the wish and melts the heart_ .”[10]

“Mm, hello, dear,” Aziraphale says lowly into the dip where shoulder meets neck. “Good morning.”

Crowley squeezes his hand.

“ _Don Juan_ , really?” If Crowley can judge his choice in literature, surely too can Aziraphale judge his.

“If the shoe fits,” Crowley says primly. He stretches, taking Aziraphale’s hand with him. “Oh, hello.”

The motion has pulled Aziraphale to perch against Crowley in their bed, their noses close enough to brush. Aziraphale smiles down at him.

Crowley purses his lips, says, “Do you think we made the right decision?”

Aziraphale dips, presses a closed mouth kiss to the side of Crowley’s mouth. He pauses there for a moment, eyes closed, before speaking. “I would do it the same way all over again a hundred thousand times.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “me too.”

 

_We are all going forward. None of us are going back._ [11]

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Home is a person. Rather, home is Crowley.  [return to text]  
2  Yes, it is _that_ Champagne: the “Shipwrecked” 1907 Heidsieck & Co. Monopole Diamant Bleu. Fewer than 2,000 bottles were salvaged from the wreckage of the Swedish freighter, _Jönköping_ , sunk by a German U-boat as it was carrying its precious cargo to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia. Even fewer bottles were deemed appropriate to drink. The bottle has a selling price of $275,000 American dollars. As Crowley would tell the story, he happened upon the bottle by chance.  [return to text]  
3 Humans often find long stretches of silence to be uncomfortable or too intimate. However, when one has known the other for as long a period of time as Aziraphale and Crowley have known each other, the silence is not uncomfortable. There is something to be said for knowing someone else as intimately as they know each other.  [return to text]  
4 Both yes and no. Yes, that was life. No, it was not Aziraphale's.  [return to text]  
5 He wonders what separates them from humans now, but that has an answer that is both simple and endlessly complex. What separates them from humans is the multitude of planes Aziraphale and Crowley exist on at any given moment. Though their vessels resemble humans, it is important to remember that they are merely that: a vessel, a body assigned to contain all that they truly are. The human mind simply cannot comprehend the way light and shadow bend about their bodies. Angels and demons are actions made flesh. Humans, however, are choice.  [return to text]  
6  With bare feet touching the ground, they can feel everything: how the world connects itself to its individual parts, how it connects itself to the sky, how its molten core bubbles and rages beneath the surface, how ever present gravity tethers all things to its surface, how the earth hurtles through space. The rush is exhilarating.  [return to text]  
7 " What happens if _you_ get bored?” is the question Aziraphale means to ask. Doubt is not an emotion that angels are supposed to feel, but lately it has eaten up his insides for a variety of reasons.  [return to text]  
8  Dante Alighieri. "Canto XXVI." _Inferno_ , 119-120, trans. A. Mandelbaum. New York: Bantam Books. 2004.  [return to text]  
9  Dante Alighieri. "Canto XI." _Purgatorio_ , 60. trans. A. Mandelbaum. New York: Bantam Books. 1984.  [return to text]  
10 G. G. B. Byron. "Canto the Third." _Don Juan_ , 953. Halifax: Milner and Sowerby. 1837.  [return to text]  
11 Richard Siken. “Snow and Dirty Rain.” _Crush_ , 52–54. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. 2005.  [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Bible, Luke 12:34.
> 
> 1\. This would be set in the beginning of the year after the apoca-wasn't. A peek, if you will, before they go to Adam's 12th birthday party. You will notice that you absolutely did not need to read that fic to get this fic.  
> 2\. Theoretically the citations are in Chicago style, but literally please don't point out any inaccuracies to me. I hate Chicago style. APA all the way, baby.  
> 3\. Some references are taken out of context of their source material. Others ... are not. I'll leave it up to you to decide which and why (and how).  
> 4\. Did I write that entire fic so that I could write that slight exchange about Dante? Who knows.  
> 5\. Yes, I said I'd never do the footnotes ever again. Guess what, I lied. They make my small little heart happy.


End file.
